The Blba Tree
by cellostargalactica
Summary: "I know my feelings cannot be wrong. I feel a resonance hum through her words as they bridge the breach between us, and I know for certain that our paths will cross again." Though they are apart for 10 years, the Exile is never far from Mical's thoughts.


**AN: The Disciple is one of my all time favorite characters, and in my very humble opinion there is not enough fanwork featuring him! So I offer a story detailing his journey from a rejected Jedi apprentice to the Exile's side. **

**All reviews are welcome and encouraged! Thanks for reading!**

Shouts echo through the halls of the Archive, sharp as a blade. I jerk away from the holocron I had been studying, and in my shock I almost send it tumbling to the floor, catching it only at the last moment. I curse myself for my clumsy reaction; I should not be so surprised at the disruption, for they have become commonplace.

The Archives had once been silent as a tomb removed; as a child the stillness had seemed to me almost reverential, as if the Jedi who came here to study were subdued into prayer over the knowledge they sought. The silence was calming, though, instead of unnerving. Once, I often came here during my free hours, seeking the quiet just as much as I sought knowledge.

It is not silent now. The shout had not been one of shock- it had been a challenge, a harsh prelude to a dispute. Gasps chase the shout through the hall, and just as I expected, Master Atris, mistress of the Archives, is not far behind.

"Control yourselves, apprentices!" I hear her scold, her voice an outraged hiss. "You are Jedi, not snarling kath hounds!"

But the apprentices are inconsolable. "Revan is the only true Jedi in the entire Order," one says, jabbing his finger into the other's face. "She fights for the Republic, despite the Council's cowardice!"

"You are a fool!" the other retorts, and his fists ball defensively.

I know they are close to coming to blows, as odd as such an interaction should have been in the Jedi Enclave. But it had been this way for years now, ever since Revan left the Order to lead the Republic war effort against the Mandalorians. It is a hotly debated issue among the Jedi, neatly dividing them all on two sides of a blade.

"That is quite enough!" Master Atris says, this time her voice well above a whisper. "Come with me, both of you." She seizes the quarrelling apprentices firmly by their arms before dragging them through the deadly silent Archive and into the hallway beyond.

I deactivate the holocron and lean well away from it in my chair, wary of knocking it over again in a bout of clumsiness. Had I once thought silence was natural to the Archive? It is silent now, but the quiet is stiff, uncomfortable. With a sigh, I stand and shelve the holocron, suddenly eager to leave the Archives.

Though I've lived at the Enclave on Dantooine for most of my life, this place no longer feels like a home. I can remember what it was like to come here, what it was like to train amongst my peers more than I can remember where I came from, or what my mother looked like. The Jedi here were my family; together we learned and delved into the depths of the Force. Perhaps it was childish and naive to think it would remain as such.

It amazes me how much this place has changed in only a few short years, all due to the actions of a Jedi I've never met; Revan. Mention her name, and the room almost visibly divides. She is a hero, or she is a traitor. The only unity left to be found in this place is among the Masters; they are utterly convinced of their rightness, which in a way is almost worse.

It is impossible to hear myself think in this place. The unrest boils through the Force like a barbed echo; it sets my teeth on edge.

I move through the halls of the sublevel, my mind far away. I have a few hours yet before supper, but I am not hungry. Where can I go in this place? Everywhere I turn, an argument brews, dissent festers. I feel it in the Force and I see it in their faces, their eyes. I find it somewhat ironic that here, of all places, one is more likely to find emotion than peace.

As I jog up the stairs to the main level, I trip over the hem of my robe, falling badly and scraping my hands on the stone floors. A group of younger apprentices laugh behind their hands and my face burns with shame. I can almost hear Master Vandar's voice in my head, a gentle rebuke. Always in the present, your mind must be. Prudent advice, considering I no longer seem to fit in my body.

Last week, I turned fifteen. I'm all height and gangly limbs, clumsiness and awkwardness. Combat was never my strong suit even as a youngling, but now it has become a laughable exercise in humiliation. I'm constantly fumbling, tripping over my overlarge hands and feet, tangled up over myself. Had they been otherwise trained, I'm sure my peers would laugh at me openly. Indeed, sometimes it is hard not to laugh at myself and the ridiculous picture I create.

The foyer is not an option, then. I had thought perhaps I would meditate here until supper, but it suddenly seems packed full of spectators, delighting over my awkwardness and the distraction I pose. The apprentices are still laughing at my fall, but I smile and wish them a good evening as I pass them by.

As unobtrusively as I am able, I make my way through the light halls of the main level. At the main doors a droid waits, but as one of the older apprentices here, I have clearance to come and go as I please as long as I keep close to the Enclave grounds. Some older apprentices take advantage of this to roam beyond, but I do not. The Masters can tell when you lie, and I'm not in the habit of foolishly squandering any privilege I'm offered.

Outside, the air is thick and the wind whips at my face. Weak beams of sunlight peek past dark clouds, which billow over the horizon, and the grasses undulate in the breeze. A storm is coming, a bad one, but I realize I would rather contend with the storms outside than the storms within. A challenge occurs to me as I watch the spindly trees bend in the wind. Perhaps if I can center myself in the chaos of a storm, I will better be able to handle the dissent of the Enclave that unnerves me so.

I know exactly where to go; there is a grove of blba trees not far from the Enclave. I go there with increasing regularity, as I know I will be left alone there. The younger apprentices are not allowed to leave the Enclave, and the Padawans usually go to more populated areas to contend with conflict, always under the watchful eye of their Masters. The Knights without Padawans have left for the wars, I realize. The blba grove has become a haven, my haven. Sometimes I wonder if anyone else even knows of it.

With a frown, I realize that's foolish. Many generations of Jedi have trained here; I can't have been the only one to seek solace in the blba grove. But as far as I know now, I am alone. Finally.

The leaves of the blba trees rumple in the stormy wind, but already I am more at peace. I slowly sink to my knees, closing my eyes and letting my senses roam over the plains. There is a herd of iriaz not far away; their dull impulses almost pass over my perception. I breathe in, stretching out; a brith calls out for its mate, and though I can't physically hear its low keen, I feel it in my skin, my heart.

Further I go, deeper. I hear voices, though they are not those of a Jedi; they are the denizens of Garang, I realize. Strains of cantina music shiver through me and I almost break away in shock; Garang is more than three hundred kilometers away, and I've never felt anything at such a distance before. But no, I push past the pride; a Jedi does not feel pride. I breathe in again, feeling my heart rate slow.

There is no emotion, there is peace. Yes, here I can believe that. There is no emotion, there is every living thing, perfectly in its place. There is the slow inhale and exhale of the galaxy, of our place within time and space. There is the Unifying and Living Force as one entity.

Then suddenly, I am no longer alone. I sense the intrusion before I see it; there is someone approaching the blba grove, intent on my sanctuary. To my shame, my first reaction is one of possessiveness; I want this stranger to pass me by. I am in the process of turning whoever approaches away with the Force before I stop myself. Who am I to deny them the peace I find here?

I open my eyes just in time to see her crest the hill, and my heart stops, for I know the woman who approaches me. Well, I suppose it's optimistic to say I know her. I know of her; there isn't a Jedi in the Enclave who doesn't know of Anet Tainer. Skilled and sure in combat, and strangely magnetic. Apprentices flock to her sides, seeking her guidance more than they seek that of the Masters, a fact that is not lost on them.

Her golden hair billows in the wind, pulled free from a sloppy braid, and her eyes widen when she sees me. Not in recognition, I know, but surprise; she expected to be alone here in the blba grove, and suddenly I feel like a thief, an intruder. I clumsily get to my feet, managing to stumble on my robe. But she smiles, a bright smile that warms my face and sends my heart stuttering.

"Hello," she says, coming to a graceful stop before me.

"H-hello," I respond. I can't meet her gaze, so I brush the wet dirt off my knees instead. "I'm sorry, I was just leaving."

"Don't leave on my account," she says and she holds up her hands as if to keep me in place. "I could use the company."

The way she says it roots me in place, and I can't move even if I wanted to. Though I suspect she's only being polite, her offer fills me with equal parts warmth and unease. My throat feels dry and my tongue too big for my mouth, and all I can do is nod as we kneel together among the trees.

". . . Mical, right?" she asks.

I'm shocked that she knows who I am, and I manage to nod. "And you're Anet," I blurt, realizing a half a second too late that knowledge might seem odd. But she merely nods and folds her hands in her lap, sinking into meditation.

I've never spoken to Anet before, though I have seen her increasingly often. At the behest of her Master, she instructs the apprentices in the ways of combat. She's taught my class a few times, and rumors of her grace and skill circulate at a near frenzy, as do whispers that she supports the actions of Revan. They do not openly mention her beauty, because Jedi must be above such thoughts.

It is hard, though, to ignore hers. The dying light catches in her eyes and her loose hair curls around her ears in the wind. We are sitting close enough that I can see a smattering of faded freckles on her nose, faded gold in this light. I swallow with difficulty. The silence is impossibly loud in my ears, and I wonder if it is as obvious to her as it is to me.

"I sense your unease," she says finally, watching me with obscene concern. "What troubles you?"

I don't consider myself a dishonest person, but the truth is too shameful. I clear my throat, looking away. "The . . . dissent, the division among the Jedi unsettles me," I admit.

She nods; this is an acceptable answer. "Me, as well." She watches the horizon for a moment, and I sense her thoughts are far away.

From my view at the periphery, it often seems like Anet is at the center of the conflict among the Jedi. Not by her own doing, of course. For one as skilled in combat as she is, she is surprisingly non-confrontational. But her fervent support of Revan and an active role of the Jedi in these wars combined with her magnetic nature have made her something of a celebrity at the Enclave. Or perhaps my perceptions are clouded by my admiration; I suppose such a thing is possible.

"What do you believe we should do?" she asks, breaking the thoughtful silence once more. "The Jedi, I mean."

Her clarification was unnecessary, but I still hesitate. What do I believe? I am sure that the Jedi served no one with only meditation and inaction, but then I also easily see the perspective of the Masters. There is something wrong with this war, in that I do not see its purpose. Conquest alone does not appeal to the Mandalorians, nor does pointless victory. It is their purpose that eludes me, and that alone is enough to give me pause.

"I . . . have little in the way of an opinion," I hedge. I don't want to tell her my thoughts and have her dismiss them as absurd.

She isn't fooled. "Yes, you do."

And though she's seen through me with insulting ease, I smile. "Forgive me."

"There is nothing to forgive. And you needn't fear rebuke from me, Mical," she adds, smiling as well.

I take a breath and decide upon the truth. "I honestly don't know. I'm able to see both sides of the conflict. I agree that the Jedi serve no one with inaction, and the plight of innocents on the Outer Rim is very much our concern."

"But?" she prompts.

"But I also see the perspective of the Masters. There is something troubling about this war. Something I sense below the surface, insidious. Something terrible. I don't know."

Anet doesn't say anything for a moment, considering my words. "It is impressive that you can so easily see and appreciate both perspectives in this. Such insight is rare, even among our peers."

I fidget under her praise, feeling my face warm. "Thank you," I say, looking down at my hands.

"Would you be surprised to know that I agree with you?" she asks me, watching me carefully.

"Not at all," I say before I can stop myself.

"You're absolutely right, Mical. The war and the death of innocents should not be ignored by the Jedi, but something is wrong with this war. I sense it just as you do, just as the Masters do."

This surprises me, as Anet is often at odds with the Masters and their reticence. "Really?"

"Of course. I'm not deaf to the ripples in the Force that surround the conflict. And yet," she says, pausing to considering the slow progress of a brith above us. "And yet, I feel we should involve ourselves despite the threat. It is cowardly to forsake our duty because of a sense of unease."

She says this with such a passionate fervor I can't help but to believe her. There is something strange in the way she speaks, as if her very words and thoughts are infused with a kind of primordial power; you feel it shifting through you, slow and yet undeniable as the tides, the movement of the stars. As I watch the determination play over her features, I am struck by a sudden, instinctive realization.

"You're leaving, aren't you?" I ask, though I already know the answer.

"Yes." She says this simply and without pride or inflection, as if she'd made the decision long ago.

I can't speak through the sudden sense of loss that nearly chokes me. It's incomprehensible; I hardly know Anet. This is the first true conversation we've had, aside from passing remarks of greeting in the halls. She's taught my class a few times, and I watched her grace and skill with awe, with a stupid kind of worship that I should be above.

It is a struggle to be honest with myself; she is beautiful and bright, and I often find myself wishing I could articulate myself better, that I could break through the protective ring of admirers that flank her nearly always. The thought of this Enclave without her is bleak and haunting, and yet as I watch her I see her decision staring back at me, almost taunting my inability to change it. I may never see her again, and that future is as barren as the vast unfeeling vacuum of space itself.

But instead of saying all of this, I smile and nod. "I can think of no one more perfect to aid the war effort."

She looks back to me, startled from whatever thoughts I interrupted. "How do you mean?"

"You're skilled and powerful, fair and just. Kind and compassionate. You are everything that a Jedi should strive to be. What better place for you than the war, where the Jedi are most needed?"

Anet has the most unnerving way of looking at a person; she fixes you with her steel grey eyes, as if by looking alone she could discern your past and future, every errant thought that wanders through your mind. As she watches me I feel scrutinized, weighed and balanced under her gaze.

"You don't actually believe that," she finally says. "The part about the war being the best place for me. You would prefer I stay."

I curse myself for my treacherous feelings and the ease in which they betrayed me. "Forgive me for my presumption," I manage.

"There is nothing to forgive, Mical. May I ask why you don't want me to go?"

My reasons are entirely personal, and I don't wish to make an even bigger fool of myself than I already have. I grasp for something that is true, but so far from the truth that it feels upsettingly like a lie. "You are a rare voice of reason in this place," I explain. "A calm in the storm. If you go, I can't help but to feel the dissent will pull me under."

"How do you mean?" she asks, watching me carefully, and I am both embarrassed and pleased to see traces of concern in her eyes.

I struggle to put the sensation into words, watching the wind rumple the leaves of the blba trees around us. "It's . . . a kind of echo, I suppose. I feel it travel through the Force, almost like a background noise. It's a struggle to concentrate through it. The worse things become here, the worse it gets, intensifying as time goes on." I close my eyes, trying to summon the exact sensation, but it escapes me.

Anet isn't deterred by my inarticulate stumbling; she's watching me even closer now. "You must be very strong in the Force to sense the discontent here in such a way."

I frown, embarrassed. I've never had the impression that I'm strong in the Force.

"I'm not trying to flatter you," she says, a hint of a smile playing at her mouth. I find it difficult to look away from the shape of her lips. "Before I crested the hill, I was sure a Knight meditated here." Her smile fades and her brow furrows. "Why haven't you been chosen to be a Padawan?"

"There are no longer enough Jedi left to train me," I answer quickly. It's the answer all the apprentices have heard, so often now that it is a near constant companion to our lessons. We are all reminded endlessly of the selfish Jedi who abandoned us in order to fulfill their desires, and though it's not specified as such, the implication is clear; those Jedi are the reason our futures hang in the balance, likely to pass away into obscurity. It's a tactic devised to ply us to the Master's side, and though there is some truth to their words, I've never had much patience for such blatant manipulation.

But the truth of the matter is this; for many years now I'd hoped for Anet to choose me as her Padawan as soon as she was Knighted. I'd avoided contact with potentially interested masters, keeping myself unavailable, always on the periphery and watched my more interested and promising classmates be chosen one by one.

It had always been a gamble, and from the way things appear now, it was a gamble that failed miserably, considering she intends to leave the Enclave to serve in the war. But aside from inappropriate feelings for her, I'd always had a sense that she would become very important in my life, and I had assumed that importance would be as a teacher. I'd always sensed that our fates were entwined, coiled. Or perhaps it was wishful thinking on my part. I can never know now.

She watches me and seems to come to a decision. "Let me teach you something, since there are no Masters to argue it," she says, getting to her feet. I follow her as quickly as I can, and of course I stumble on the hem of my robe, which is quite a feat considering they are a good four inches too short.

We walk through the grove silently, and I watch tendrils of her hair whip about her head. We don't go far, but the silence is uncomfortable to me. I am frankly terrified; I've wanted to learn from her for as long as I've known her, and now that the moment is at hand, I'm afraid of showing myself to be an inept student. I suppose a small part of me wishes she'll choose to remain should she see how quickly I grasp her lessons.

Anet comes to a stop before the largest blba tree in the grove, a powerful thing with thick branches and strong roots. Its wide leaves cast dappled patterns on the grass, shifting easily with the winds. She studies it for a moment, her eyes following the progress of the weak shadows, before turning to me with a smile on her face.

"I've always loved the blba trees," she begins. "And as I've grown in the Force, I've realized the blba tree is a perfect example of all we should strive to be as Jedi."

I've never considered this. I find the trees themselves to be calming, but I've given them little thought aside from that. But I don't want to disappoint her, especially considering she believes me worthy enough to attempt to teach me. "How so?" I ask her.

She kneels at the base of the tree. "A blba tree grows deep roots, deeper than most trees. It is a steady thing, and it both gives and receives from its environment. So too must we be a part of the galaxy, and offer ourselves to both use and be used.

She stands now, gesturing up to the powerful branches above us, thick with leaves. "The blba tree grows wide branches and thick leaves, and yet these are not beneficial to its own standing in the ecosystem. They are for the others, and an example of the selflessness we must cultivate as Jedi. Not everything we do in our lives will because of our wills and desires, but because we answer a higher call.

"But, do you see the ends of those branches?" she asks me.

I take a closer look and see with surprise that they are pointed, whittled down like the fine end of a pin. "I've never seen such a thing," I say.

"They are pointed to keep the fabool from eating their seeds. So while we as Jedi must not seek conflict, we must not also allow ourselves to become easy prey," she says, and she smiles at this. I smile as well; no one could ever believe Anet to be easy prey.

She lays a small hand on the trunk of the tree. "Finally, suppose a storm should strike, much like the one that is brewing now," she says with a quick glance toward the sky, toward the roiling clouds over the horizon. "While the blba tree has flexible branches, it has a powerful and sturdy trunk. No amount of gusting is enough to fell it.

She looks to me now and I see the conviction bright in her eyes, I feel the truth of what she says in my bones. "In stormy times as these, we must be more like the blba tree. We can't be rigid, ignoring the subtle shift of the world as it changes around us, but we also must remain strong in our convictions and our faith in the will of the Force."

I don't respond immediately, savoring her words, weighing them against what I've sensed and what I've yet to learn. I am struck then by her wisdom and humility. She doesn't teach as if she believes herself to be above the learner; she teaches from a sincere desire to share knowledge and understanding. It is something I've never experienced in my life as a student of the Masters.

It is then that I know my feelings cannot be wrong. The resonance I sense between us is not purely my imagination, the wishful delusions of a love-struck child. I feel it hum through her words as they bridge the breach between us, and I know for certain that our paths will cross again.

But I duck my head in deference to her words. "You are wise," I say.

She shrugs, a bit embarrassed by my praise, and it only serves to endear her to me further. "So you see? You are strong in the Force, and unnaturally perceptive. You won't be a weed buffeted in the wind." She takes my shoulder and I thrill at her touch, which seems to carry through my skin. "You are the blba tree, and you need not be afraid."

"Thank you," I say, horrified to hear my voice tremble a bit.

But she doesn't seem to notice, to my immense relief. "Walk back with me?" she asks.

"Yes, of course," I say quickly.

She only smiles again, and I feel a strange sense of loss as she takes her hand away from my shoulder. We don't speak of weighty things as we slowly make our way back to the Enclave, but I confess my thoughts don't completely reside in our conversation. I am watching her, committing her to memory. Every part of her; her wisdom and kindness, her beauty, that smile that makes my chest ache. The gentle hum of the Force that envelops her like a cloud. The strange sensation of fate that resonates in me when I watch her, poignantly as a plucked string.

I am copying her permanently in my thoughts, my very soul, so that I will know her when we met again. And perhaps in doing so, she will know me.


End file.
